All's Fair
by PrincessCocoa
Summary: When Sherlock's pride gets him in over his head, everyone feels the strain. The problem is, those who face the most problems aren't even sure why. When the entire world thinks Sherlock is dead, how is he to fix the mess he's started?
1. Prologue

**Hello all! After reading tons of fanfic, I decided I'd try my hand at some. This is my first fic ever, not to mention in the Sherlock fandom so please take that into consideration. I've decided to go with a post-Reichenbach story because I've got so many ideas floating in my head for it. I know the hurt/comfort tag is filled with post-rf stories, sorry, but I'm adding one in ^_^.**

**I started writing this awhile ago and left it alone for awhile. I've decided to post the prologue just to see if anyone cares to read it :). Con-crit is gladly accepted as are any comments that aren't here to bash me. Anyway, enjoy the story. Sorry the first bit is so short, but it seemed like a good point to cut the story off at. Also, this is non-beta'd and brit-picked.**

**Obviously, I don't own Sherlock or anything that has to do with it, though I wish I did. **

* * *

Sherlock slams into the wall adjacent to the door of his most recent refuge: a seedy motel in what had to be the most disgusting bit of the United States that one could find. He reaches into his pocket searching for the key in an admittedly frantic manner. Though rationally he knew that, by now, the danger had passed, he's still embarrassingly anxious.

He heaves a sigh as he steps inside, making sure to continue keeping pressure on his injured shoulder. Leaning against the wall, he takes a moment to force himself to calm down.

Sherlock closes his eyes, attempting to employ several relaxation techniques which prove futile when a bullet is lodged in one's right shoulder. Oh how he longs for the calming effects of his violin right now though it'd be fairly hard to play at the moment, anyway.

He tilts his head against the wall he's leaning on and allows himself a few moments to assess his current predicament. Up until tonight, he'd been so bloody careful. It figures that the one night he lets his guard down would turn out to be the one night he couldn't afford to do so.


	2. Chapter 1

**So I went on a road trip this weekend and got a ton of time to write. I'm going to try to do weekly updates but if school is going to be evil, that might not keep. Basically, don't hold me to consistent updates, but don't be surprised when it happens haha :D.**

**Anyway, this chapter is a lot longer than the last, thankfully. I hope you didn't get into this hoping it was some short story because right now, it's looking like I'm going to be in for the long haul with what I'm planning with the plot. Please enjoy chapter 1, and if you feel like it, let me know what you think. Remember, con crit is always accepted ^_^.**

* * *

His latest plan had been a failure; that much was obvious, though not in the traditional sense. The man he was after – one Benjamin Harris – was dead, not by Sherlock's hand, however. No, someone else, rather, a trained sniper, had killed him before Sherlock could even finish his "transaction".

The plan was supposed to have gone off without a hitch; after that he'd be almost done, just this man, and three others would mean the end of Moriarty's empire. It had been three years in the making, or, to be more precise, two years, eight months, three weeks, and four days. Now, however, after his colossal mistake, it had all gone to waste.

_A few hours previous:_

Sherlock raised his head from the sink and took a moment to get acquainted with his new persona. At this moment he was Fredrick Johnson, a red-headed, bearded man whose fashion sense consisted of hideous leather jackets and, frankly, ratty jeans. He would never understand the commonwealth's penchant for torn-up jeans but he'd have enough time to ponder that later. Perhaps he'd even ask John, he'd probably know at least something about so-called "fashion". Right now, though, he had to focus. He directed all (well most…okay, some) of his considerable brainpower to the task at hand.

He was about to meet with Benjamin as a potential new customer. Mr. Harris was desperate for new clients seeing as how Sherlock had all but demolished his current source of revenue. His desperation had made him clumsy; clumsy enough to be willing to meet Sherlock at a location determined by him and on such short notice that backup was near impossible to set up.

It had been a long time in coming: hundreds of jailed or dead criminals and even more "interrogations" had finally gotten Sherlock the information he needed. So much violence for something so small; seven names.

Seven names that corresponded to the seven powers under Moriarty; _they_ were the reason the company hadn't fallen apart following his death. Sherlock should have known; despite how much John and he would like to think to the contrary, Jim and himself were completely alike. Yes, Sherlock would easily be able to run a company as extensive as Moriarty's, but it'd be boring beyond belief. Jim wanted to be the ruler, a king of all kings, but he wanted to be able to play with whomever he wanted whenever he wanted which he couldn't do if he was busy running a worldwide criminal empire. And that is where the seven men came in.

Six men for six inhabitable continents, overseeing business in each one and one man acting as a lieutenant – a second-in-command only to Jim Moriarty himself, deciding what was interesting enough to be brought to Jim. Seven men ruled the world and Moriarty ruled them, it was brilliant, really. Sherlock may detest the man beyond belief but he had been interesting to say the least.

Moriarty's second-in-command would be the hardest to get to: one Colonel Sebastian Moran, now the head of the company following Moriarty's death. Sherlock was saving him for last; he'd probably not even kill him – he'd likely hand him over to Mycroft and his cronies as a gift of sorts for keeping him in the dark so long. Well, not a gift per se, in all honesty it'd be a nice slap in the face to the brother who currently thought he was dead; a bittersweet present for Mycroft to do with as he saw fit.

Yes, Moran would be a gift now that he knew Mycroft's assistants could be trusted; Sherlock might even place a bow tie on the man too. Following that, he could go home and rest for as long as his mind would allow. He'd solve a case for Lestrade, perhaps anonymously at first just to anger him, and he'd rid John of that pesky girlfriend so they could once again chase criminals without it being as tedious as it was now.

But! Before that could happen, he had to focus. He shook himself to rid his mind of these monotonous emotions. He couldn't afford to get ahead of himself. Before he could get to Moran he'd have to take out the remainder of "the grand council".

He'd already gotten two of the seven to kill each other through carefully spun lies regarding embezzling and other boring matters regarding money. All that was left was Amir Hassan, Wei Lin, Moran, and Harris. As a fake client tonight, Sherlock was going to get the information he needed and then take advantage of his lack of staff to kill Benjamin.

Sherlock took a quick look at his phone; his thinking had cost much more time than he'd anticipated. He threw on his jacket and grabbed a bit of cash out of his threadbare wallet; he could afford to indulge in a cab ride this time around. He was cutting it a bit close if he wanted to arrive first but since he wouldn't have to scout out the location for this meeting, he should be ok.

"Even some of Moriarty's top men are complete idiots," he mumbled as he settled into the backseat of the cab, "I hoped they'd at least prove to be a bit of a challenge." He leaned back in his seat, ignoring the strange look the cab driver was giving him. He could hardly bring the skull with him though it would seem talking to oneself attracts just as much attention. Sherlock sighed. Well, at least this job would prove to be easy; letting the client choose the locale was a rookie mistake. He'd be in and out in no time.


	3. Chapter 2

_Now:_

Among the top of the list titled Famous Last Words, the phrase "I should be in and out in no time" sat in bolded font. It turns out that the job Sherlock had originally thought was despairingly easy was now the toughest predicament he's had to face in these past few years. It would seem that the feeling of desperation had not been Benjamin's alone; Sherlock's hunger to have this whole miserable business over and done with had left him cocky and, worst of all, ignorant. He'd walked right into a trap that could have been easily avoided had he taken the time to perform the same precautions that he usually did. Instead, like a fool, he'd walked into a building without first scouting it out and came back with a bullet in the shoulder to show for it. When did he become so imprudent? So dim like the rest of mankind that he tried so hard to pull himself away from?

The sniper though…the sniper was good, he'd at least give him that. With a single bullet the mystery shooter had killed Harris and had injured Sherlock himself. Had he not been moving, Sherlock would have had a fatal bullet to the chest rather than a (more or less) superficial bullet to the shoulder.

Pulling off his shirt and moving the chair at the table in the kitchenette, Sherlock sat to perform a service that he's done too many times to count during these past few years. Not to say he's been shot multiple times; rather, one could say that he'd become quite the expert at stitching up a wound.

Pulling a bullet out of his shoulder would likely prove to be a bit of a challenge but it was better than having to explain himself at the local hospital which, if it was anything like the rest of this city, was likely a disgusting wreck of a building. Were John here, he'd probably call Sherlock and idiot for not going to the hospital but he couldn't afford to draw attention to himself, not now. So, with teeth clenched, Sherlock began and directed any traitorous thoughts about pain to something more productive, namely, his mystery sniper.

Several ideas ran through his mind as he contemplated the killer so Sherlock started with the most basic: who would want Benjamin Harris dead? The criminal business was a dangerous one, sure, but Moriarty's business, and those related to it hardly provided any threat to the rest of the world after all of Sherlock's work. Not to mention the fact that the place they had met at was one chosen by Sherlock so, obviously, not one usually used by Harris; he'd made sure of it. All of these facts combined rule out any potential enemies outside of the company. That, at least made things easier. It narrowed down the search to the pitiful remainder of Moriarty's network. The question now being: who among their tight-knit group would want Benjamin dead?

Sherlock sighed in relief as the bullet finally vacated his shoulder and landed on the table. It would never cease to surprise him that such a small thing could cause such pain. The worst part was over now, all that was left to do was stitch himself up. Luckily the bullet hadn't hit anything major making this easy – though his definition of easy had been wrong today, already. He took a minute to set everything up and directed his thoughts back to the shooter.

Harris hardly had enough time to get together a sufficient team to accompany him. The man wasn't an idiot, though; Sherlock had been able to spot two bodyguards hiding in the background. His plan had been to take out Harris and to get the others when they revealed themselves so as to kill him in response. Yet, after the shots had been fired, the others had made no move to get him. In fact, he'd gotten out quite easily; the sniper had even stopped firing. With that in mind, it was obvious that it was someone with a lot of authority. It had to be someone with enough authority to overrule Harris. Someone who'd be able to have Benjamin killed in the first pla- Oh! Oh no, this was not good, not good at all. A trained sniper with enough authority to have a top player in Moriarty's company killed without so much as a shout from his personal team of bodyguards? There's only one person that could possibly fit the bill: Moran.

Moran had been there and had killed Harris before Sherlock could. He could have killed them at any point during the transaction which probably means he was taking the time to identify Sherlock before he fired the shot. In fact, the whole meeting had probably been a set-up to identify the person who'd been killing those within the company in the first place. So now Moran knew who it was; while his disguise was good enough to fool idiots like Benjamin, it was likely that Moran had been able to see right through it. (One didn't work so close to Jim Moriarty without having at least a bit of an above-average intelligence). And if he knew who he was and had made sure that he walked free, it meant he had something bigger in store.

Oh yes, definitely a bit not good. He's going to have to warn those who used to be close to him – those who Moriarty knew Sherlock cared about. The problem is, they have no idea he was still alive. There's only one thing for it: it's time to call Molly.


	4. Chapter 3

Jumping off of the roof of Bart's hadn't been his best or even most well thought out plan ever but he had survived and that's all that mattered. As far as he knew, Molly was the only person who knew he was alive which is exactly what he'd hoped for; more people knowing provided too many variables to handle if he wished to keep his life-after-death a secret. She had been the safest person to keep his secret with at the time; still was, actually.

Mycroft's lackeys – men and women that he would delegate the trivial matters of Sherlock's mission to because he's a fat, lazy arse – couldn't be trusted. It was likely that Moriarty had planted people within his office, even in positions as high as "Anthea" (though the woman, herself wasn't a traitor) which meant he was out as a confidant. It was a pity, that; he likely would have proven to be quite useful. Lestrade's own team hated him and, though Lestrade was a man that Sherlock might begrudgingly call a friend, he still had a contractual obligation to arrest him. Though Sherlock wasn't sure whether or not warrants were still valid for dead men. Finally John, the man whose help he'd actually wanted before deciding on Molly was also the one who was tracked both by Mycroft and Moriarty.

Moran was clever; he'd kept taps on John even after Moriarty's suicide and Sherlock's funeral. If he were to postulate on the reason, Sherlock would say it's because Moran had his suspicions about his death; suspicions that had remained unfounded until just a few hours ago.

With his three top assets ruled out, Sherlock had turned to Molly who, surprisingly, turned out to be a bit more intelligent than he'd first given her credit for. She'd helped him survive his death, had faked his death certificate, and had taken him into her home for the wearisome amount of time it took him to heal from the few injuries he'd sustained. After spending that much time with the woman, she'd proven herself to be worthy of his trust (something that he didn't give out lightly) and he incorporated her almost fully into his afterlife.

He'd given her, indirectly, a substantial portion of his savings; at least one half. Well, technically it'd gone to Bart's under the guise of repayment for all the body parts and, through some not-exactly-legal transactions, had eventually ended up in a bank account run by the both of them. She was to keep it for safekeeping and for him to use during his travels. Sherlock would have liked to be present at the reading of his will at least, just to see the look of surprise on Mycroft's face at a seemingly selfless donation. It had been tough getting the money to her without his overbearing brother noticing but, like Molly had said, she didn't matter; not in Mycroft's eyes anyway.

After he'd healed up and before he set off to start his vigilante business, he created a secure server by which they could instant message one another. Generally Sherlock messaged her when he needed money or was coming back to London and needed to use her flat. Part of their agreement had been that he also check-in with her on pre-determined dates so she could "know that he was still ok". He didn't understand this, while John had introduced him to the general population's need for sentiment, it was still mostly foreign to him, but he messaged her when he could on these dates. In return, she'd give him some information about John and others; but mostly John. While he was loathe to admit it, these updates helped somewhat. These past years had been rough and would they have not dulled his senses, he'd have indulged in his favorite drugs-of-choice: cocaine. Not to mention the fact that once he returned home, he planned on living with John once again and he suspected that he'd be none too pleased about a renewed drug habit.

Needless to say, Molly's help had been an invaluable part of his mission. Without her help this whole business would have taken much longer. In fact, it probably wouldn't have happened at all; he could hardly forge his own death certificate.

Unfortunately, Sherlock hadn't had much of a chance to contact Molly in these past few months. He was worried that perhaps she'd thought he was dead and had finally logged off the server.

His worries, however, were unsupported for when he logged on, her name was there followed by a green circle. Green was good: if there was a problem, she'd change the icon to the yellow triangle and Sherlock would receive a text message notification. If she chose to log off, though, he'd have received no notification and would be left with nowhere to turn.

He opened the chat interface to send a brief message that would remain on her account until she navigated to the website. He considered for a moment sending a message to Mycroft but almost immediately dismissed the idea. Sherlock was so far unsure that Mycroft's interference would be necessary at this point. Besides, contacting the pompous bastard when he didn't absolutely require his assistance would be annoying and would provide Mycroft with reason to constantly nag and taunt Sherlock for all eternity. Mycroft hardly needed anything else to feel smug about.

So he typed his message to Molly. A message very short and to the point so as not to be misunderstood, it read:

_Possible emergency, keep eye on L, H, and J; especially J. Will contact when neutralized._

_-SH_

_PS: If needs must, contact M._

Molly would be able to determine if Mycroft's assistance should be called for though, honestly, he didn't think so. If anything, Moran would set another trap for Sherlock, taking the direct approach. Which was why it was time for a new look: he had to make absolutely sure that Moran knew he was Sherlock Holmes before he stopped wearing disguises; he couldn't afford another mistake because of a lack of facts.


	5. Chapter 4

To say she was overjoyed at seeing a new message from Sherlock upon returning home would be a bit of an understatement. Molly had nearly tipped her kitchen chair over from her elated bouncing after opening the server though it had quickly passed.

It'd been nearly a year since they'd talked though that hadn't stopped her from keeping herself logged on and checking their shared server on a near-daily basis. She wouldn't call it crazy but honestly, a single woman living in a flat with only her cat for company trying to talk to a supposedly dead man was perhaps, upon analysis, a little strange.

Molly lets loose a nervous chuckle; this was insane. They don't talk for nearly a year, he's off doing god-knows-what or is dead and she's here religiously awaiting a message, and then when she finally gets one, it's pretty urgent. Now she's expected to "keep an eye" on three separate people? How was she supposed to do that? What if she failed? Sherlock would hate her, he'd be so upset, he'd-.

She turned around to face her cat and took a deep breath. "Well Astrid, Greg is a police officer, yeah? He can take care of himself for the time being, can't he?" Astrid simply continued to stare at her, apparently unconcerned with all the nervous tension Molly was emanating. "And, well, the email said John especially so I guess John would be best right?" Astrid blinked and padded away. "Well. I'll take that as a yes," she muttered as she stood to gather her coat and purse. "Though I have no idea how long I'll have to watch him. How does one even "keep an eye" on someone else anyway? This could be a bit awkward." She was halfway to the door before realizing she didn't have an actual plan in mind.

She ran through several different ideas before coming up with a somewhat-feasible one. She'd just have to make sure she was around John and that meant she'd have to talk to him and have a legitimate reason to do so. She couldn't just go around stalking people, (Sherlock would have been able to but Molly was about as inconspicuous as a bus) so she'd have to go with the direct approach.

Turning around and opening a cupboard door, Molly pulled out a few pastries. Her plan, it would seem, was to offer up some congratulations to John and Mary despite the fact that they'd gotten engaged nearly four months ago. She shook her head and headed for the door after packaging them up in a more presentable manner. It was beginning to look like this was going to be more than "a bit awkward".

Well, at least it was a chance to see their new flat.

* * *

John Watson was enjoying a cup of tea and some mindless telly when Molly Hooper swooped (for that was the only word for it) in through his and Mary's front door. She hadn't barged in, per se, but when he'd opened the door she had practically lunged in brandishing wrapped pastries. It was surprising, to say the least; John and Molly hadn't talked much since Sherlock's funeral over two years ago and here she was as if they were the best of friends.

Molly had set about un-wrapping the pastries amid seemingly mindless babbling so he left her to it in favour of making some tea for the both of them. When he returned after setting the kettle to boil, he found Molly sitting on a kitchen chair, nervously picking at her sleeve.

"Molly…?"

Her head snapped up, as if she hadn't realized he was there despite the fact that it was his own flat.

"Hullo John! This is a really nice flat. I haven't gotten a chance to come by and see it since you both moved in together and all but you know, busy times and such, lots of dead bodies in the morgue and all plus my cat just needs constant attention and –,"

John held up a hand to silence her, chuckling at the amount of time she'd gone without a single intake of breath. "I was wondering about the sudden visit, actually."

"Oh! Yes, I brought pastries to celebrate."

"Celebrate what, exactly?"

"Well your engagement of course! Congratulations."

"Molly, Mary and I got engaged four months ago."

"Well, that's what happens when you work with dead people, you never hear any of the good gossip," she giggled at her apparent joke and though John didn't find it particularly funny, he chuckled as well. "So I decided, since I haven't offered up a proper congratulations since I've been so…busy, I'd come on over since I've now found some free time."

"That's very sweet Molly, though pastries weren't necessary, really. A simple text would have been fine; no need to come out of your way."

"Well my flat is just so quiet, I had to get out and here I am! No trouble, really. So where's Mary, by the way? I haven't seen her in quite awhile."

_You haven't seen me in quite awhile either_, he thought but instead said, "At work of course. She keeps taking extra shifts though I tell her it's not necessary."

Molly nodded and continued looking about the flat from her perch at the kitchen table. "Hm. Well, does she have to go in tomorrow night, by chance?"

"Not after mid-afternoon that I know of…why?"

"Like I said, I've found some free time. I was wondering if you'd both like to join me for dinner. Or-or something. Doesn't have to be dinner, maybe brunch, maybe drinks in the evening, whatever!"

John sighed; and he'd thought the girl was awkward around Sherlock. He was wary about going to her house, though perhaps with Mary the whole experience wouldn't be so bad. Besides, she was sweet enough; it might not be so awkward. "Sure, Molly, that sounds nice. I'll let Mary know."

At that, Molly jumped up. "Great," she exclaimed, "I'll just be off now, I'm sure Astrid is hungry. You should let me know when Mary's shift gets off and we can decide on an exact time from there."

John nodded and followed her to the doorway. Just as the door closed behind her, the kettle made its presence known with a high pitched whistle. For the second time in as many minutes, John sighed and set about preparing his own tea. The girl was certainly a whirlwind, just like Sherlock used to be. He looked out the window and tracked her progress down the street.

Perhaps if he got to know her better at dinner tomorrow, he'd stop associating her solely with his deceased best friend.


	6. Chapter 5

**Hullo again! It's been awhile, and I'm sorry. School has been _killing_ me lately and it doesn't look like it's going to die down anytime soon. However, I've planned out more of the exact specifics of a lot of the story from here on so that'll (hopefully) allow me to keep on top of writing this. Though that doesn't mean I'm not open to suggestions; keep in mind this is my first Sherlock fic so concrit is always welcome :D. **

**Response time:  
****hedidnotjump: Thanks for the suggestion! It's definitely helped. :)**

* * *

Molly set the pot of water to boil and checked on the garlic bread; she wasn't the best cook in the world but spaghetti was supposed to be easy to make. She took off her gloves and sat at her table until the water started to boil, watching Astrid prowl around her empty food bowl.

She was worried. Scratch that, she was really, _really_ worried. Her performance last night was dismal to put it nicely. Molly just wasn't a natural-born liar…it wasn't in her nature. Lying made her clam up or become ditzy and reckless and if Sherlock's message was anything to go by, 'reckless' was the last thing she wanted to be at this point. She had a job to do: make sure John and Mary were ok, Sherlock was counting on her.

Astrid's annoyed meow brought her out of her thoughts and back into a world that reeked of…burnt garlic. Molly jumped out of her seat and threw herself at the stove, opening it as fast as she could only to be hit in the face with a puff of black smoke. She had been so lost in her thoughts that she'd forgotten to check on the garlic bread. She grabbed the pan of charcoal out of the oven and filled the boiling pot with spaghetti, hoping she could at least get that right otherwise John and Mary were getting a hearty meal comprised of take-out.

The doorbell rang while Molly was attempting to determine which pieces of blackened bread might still be salvageable. She looked at the clock and saw that John was right on time, of course. She removed her apron (a gift from her mother, she'd never really had a chance to use it before) before opening the door to her flat.

"Mary got stuck at work for a bit but sent me on ahead," he said by way of greeting. Molly smiled and welcomed him in, taking the bottle of wine that he'd brought and taking it to the table.

"That's no problem; I've had a bit of a problem with dinner as it is. It should be ready in just a bit." Molly returned to the kitchen. She fed Astrid, took the spaghetti off of the heat and returned with some glasses for the wine. "We can serve the food once she gets here."

She sat with him and they talked for a bit. Molly could see that John was pretty much back to being the man she'd met; she'd been worried right after Sherlock's "death". Luckily Mary looked like the perfect thing for John following all of the hysterics – he was finally happy again though it had been a long haul to get to this point.

Molly looked at the clock again and realized just how much time had passed: a half an hour. It only took about ten minutes to get to her flat from Mary's work. "How long was Mary supposed to be stuck at work for?"

John looked at the clock too, "She didn't specify but I can't imagine she'd be kept behind for over twenty minutes." He frowned and pulled out his phone. He stepped into the other room to ring her while Molly sat in silence, slowly becoming tenser; from what she could tell, Mary was considerate and nearly as punctual as her fiancée. She was immediately on alert when John came back into the room looking confused and a bit flustered.

Molly's heart sank. Honestly this was probably just a huge overreaction but she was worried about _everything_ following the "possibly emergency" that Sherlock had mentioned. Worse yet, if this wasn't an overreaction, if something really was going on, how was she supposed to tell John?

"Maybe she's in the shower or something? We could go over and check on her if you like. The spaghetti will be ok on its own." Molly hoped that her tone conveyed some semblance of calm though after stealing a glance at him again, John looked fine.

"You're probably right," he murmured, more to himself than to her, "though yes. Yeah that'd, ah, that'd be nice. I'll just run over and see if everything's alright."

"No, no! I'll come too," she exclaimed while launching at the coat rack to fetch her jacket.

John spared her a somewhat wary glance before nodding and leading the way out of the door.

* * *

The cab ride over to John and Mary's flat was one spent, for the most part, in tense silence. Mary's work was close to their flat so it was only about ten minutes but they were some of the longest minutes of Molly's life. John had tried texting and phoning Mary again to let her know they were on their way but he was only met, once again, with her voicemail.

Molly could see that John was having trouble making sense of this situation: it'd been over two years since he had to worry about potentially missing friends. All the same, his ever-present soldier's instinct had kicked in and, despite himself (and Molly's quiet yet incessant reassurances) he was ready to charge into battle. With whom, he didn't know; any threats to his person had pretty much died with Sherlock.

Molly sighed and looked out the window, willing the cab to move faster through the London traffic. It was starting to look more and more like this wasn't a simple overreaction.

Finally, the cab pulled up along the kerb. John took a moment to pay for the ride and ran up to the door, his hand instinctively reaching for his pistol though he hadn't carried it for years. With Molly trailing close behind, John made quick work of the lock and rushed inside.

The flat was dark and quiet, which immediately put John on alert: obviously Mary wasn't home. He entertained the thought that perhaps they'd just missed her until something crunched under his foot. Molly scrambled for the light switch and let out a gasp when the room was bathed in light.

John and Molly took in the scene. John had stepped on Mary's makeup which, like the rest of the items from her purse, was on the floor not too far from the door. He reached down for the phone that lay not too far beyond the purse itself. His hands as they held the phone were completely steady with the adrenaline coursing through his veins – an addiction he thought he'd rid himself of years ago. He took a moment to look at it, noticing the two missed calls that had come from him before he looked over the rest of the room.

His eyes roamed over everything, pulling as many details as he could from each surface in a manner not unlike Sherlock when he'd take in a crime scene for the first time. Well that's what it was now, wasn't it? A crime scene. He saw the scattered papers. He saw the overturned armchair. And, finally, he saw the blood. There, near the kitchen, nearly half a meter from the door on a piece of wall left slightly protruding after a shoddy repair job, was a smattering of crimson. It wasn't enough for someone to be in any real danger of dying. No, if John could hazard a guess, he's say the blood on the wall of his and Mary's flat was spilt by Mary herself when whoever attacked her had knocked her out.

"Right," he said; his voice a quiet monotone. He swept his gaze once more over the room before turning to face a wide-eyed Molly, his posture rigid. "Call Greg, we need all the help we can get." Molly nodded and shakily reached for her phone. "Perhaps I'll call Mycroft too." Molly looked up at that, a puzzled expression on her face: Mycroft and John weren't exactly friends. John saw her expression and let out a low chuckle, "Mycroft is a Holmes, and besides that, he's my best chance at avoiding jail time when I find whoever has Mary."

* * *

**So we're finally getting into some action here! I'm not sure if this required a tw for kidnapping or anything but if you think it does, please let me know. **


	7. Chapter 6

Molly stood on the outskirts of the police activity contemplating her current predicament.

She had failed.

Almost a year without contact and when she finally receives a task, she blows it. Though in all fairness, if a criminal is trying to get to Sherlock, why go for Mary? Even Moriarty had seen that John was Sherlock's biggest weakness not to mention the fact that Sherlock hadn't even met the woman before. There was probably some sinister motive in there somewhere but her thoughts were too jumbled to try to think of a reasonable explanation.

There was only one thing to do now, though: find some way to contact Sherlock. All of their previous chats had always been initiated by him; usually a message for Molly indicating a date and time would appear and she'd speak with him over the specified channels. Getting hold of Sherlock, on the other hand, may prove to be a challenge. The only thing for it was to send a message with a few facts and hope he was bored enough to check the website in a timely manner.

She leans her head back against the wall and wonders, not for the first time, if any of this could have been prevented had John known the truth. She knows, of course, why that wasn't possible: Sherlock, during his first few weeks after the fall, had discovered enough equipment around John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson to put the military to shame. They were being watched – well…they had been being watched. At the rate Sherlock had been going, there's a good chance that most of Moriarty's organization was gone now. Which means whoever is left is either really lucky or extremely smart. Probably both; and still too dangerous to risk getting John or anyone else involved. That doesn't mean she didn't want to try, though. _We're in over our heads here_, she thought, eyes still glued to the ceiling.

"Hey Molly, are you alright?"

Molly lowered her head and found herself looking into the sympathetic eyes of Greg Lestrade. She took a moment to readjust herself to her surroundings, finding that the previously rancorous police activity had died down to a quiet murmur.

"Fine," she smiled, "just a bit…overwhelmed is all."

Greg nodded, "I suppose so. Definitely not something you'd expect to happen on the night of a friendly dinner party. Or any night for the matter." He looked around a bit before turning back to Molly, "And of all the people for this to happen to. I can't believe this is some sort of coincidence."

_You'd be correct in that assumption_, she thought, watching John discuss something with another officer. "So no clues as to who's done this, then?"

Greg shook his head, "We'll probably have something more once we get back to the station and let forensics play around for a bit, but for now, the scene can't tell us much."

"I beg to differ, Detective Inspector."

Molly and Greg both whipped their heads around to watch as the well dressed and foreboding figure of Mycroft Holmes strode through the front door.

"What, no assistant then, Mycroft?" John called from across the room. Molly could tell he was only half kidding: things between Mycroft and John had been tense since the funeral where he'd nearly knocked Mycroft over with a single punch. Since then, they'd hardly spoken.

Mycroft merely studied the room a bit more before inclining his head towards John as he responded, "While you know how much I detest legwork," his face contorted into a displeased frown at the word, "you are at the very least, Doctor Watson, a personal acquaintance of mine. One that I believe I owe a great deal to."

John scoffed at the explanation, "Why in the world would you owe me anything, Mycroft?"

Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow, "I should think that the reason is obvious, John. Not many people were willing to put up with my late brother, especially for so long. I'm willing to personally help you find your fiancée in return for your treatment of Sherlock; your presence made things…smoother."

Molly watched John's face contort, flitting through several different emotions at once: anger, sadness, resignation. "Well," he said after a moment, "go on, then."

Mycroft bowed his head in acknowledgement and turned to Lestrade. "I trust your team has at least a slight grasp on what happened here but I'd like to put in a bit of commentary."

It wasn't really a question but Lestrade nodded his permission anyway. Anyone who wasn't already watching the government official turned to give him their full attention. True to the Holmes-ian way, Mycroft shut them all out and began speaking, more to himself than anyone else.

"There was a struggle, that much is obvious," he started, "though when it began is the real question." He looked to the purse still lying a few feet from the doorway. "Either she was just arriving home or was leaving though I suspect leaving. Her purse contained her keys and phone, items that she'd likely have placed in there on her way out. I imagine it's difficult to place keys back into one's purse when an attacker is standing just inside. Our attacker, then, was at the front door when she was." He stopped then, looking at the wall opposite the doorway.

"I highly doubt our attacker was simply standing at the door waiting. He might have become lazy had she taken too long in which case Ms. Morstan could have either shut the door or found a way to better protect herself. No, she was being watched." He pointed at the window on the far left of the wall he'd been staring at. "Most likely through that window. The large bay window in the center and the one on the right hand side overlook a street and a park respectively whereas the left window is opposite an office complex."

He turned to "Anthea" then who'd followed him in a couple of minutes after his entrance, "See that we get some security tapes from that building. Our suspicious character will likely have been on the second or third floor."

He turned back to the room, "Ms. Morstan was pushed backwards from the doorway and stumbled; dropping her purse in the process before colliding with the chair here," he indicated the overturned chair. "She managed to stand up and rushed to the kitchen – no fire escape in that direction so I imagine she was racing to grab a weapon – but was met with resistance. Her attacker was faster and well prepared for retaliation. That bloodstain was made when she was thrown into the wall though judging by the height it looks like nothing more than a head wound; the same head wound that knocked her out. The whole altercation could not have lasted for more than a minute."

Mycroft turned to John then who stared coolly back, obviously slightly uncomfortable about hearing Mary's apparent ordeal. "The real problem, Dr. Watson, is that this was obviously a pre-meditated attack. You and your fiancée were being monitored, enough so that the killer knew when the surrounding flats would be empty. Any neighbors that might have heard the sounds of a struggle were, conveniently, nowhere to be found. Not to mention the fact that our attacker was able to carry an unconscious woman out of her home, into a fairly busy street no less, without a single bit of protest."

He nodded to Anthea again, presumably requesting CCTV footage from the street as well.

"Any ideas Dr. Watson?"

"Not a one," John sighed, "Mary is hardly a threatening character and anyone who would have wanted me because of my relation to Sherlock probably would have come after me by now."

"Yes, I imagined that would be the case." Mycroft turned back to Lestrade, "I assume that my deductions fit with those that your team came up with, Detective Inspector?"

Lestrade grunted in affirmation, apparently regaining some of his composure. (The last time he'd seen a stream of deductions like that was nearly three years ago). "Yes, Mr. Holmes, that's about all that we've gleaned from the scene."

Mycroft smiled slyly. He, like Molly, could tell that was a blatant lie: no one could deduce a scene like a Holmes. "Quite," said Mycroft, "I suppose that's all I need for now. I'll be in touch Dr. Watson, Inspector." He nodded at Molly as well as Lestrade and turned to leave with his ever-typing assistant in tow.

"Bloody hell," Lestrade said once the coast was clear. "That family is insane." Across the room, John closed his eyes and sat in a nearby chair. Molly looked about the flat once more; it really was nice save for the police activity. However it was time to leave and try to get a hold of Sherlock. She said her goodbyes and stole a glance at John on her way out. He'd been calm throughout the evening – professional even. But Molly could tell he was edgy: he needed something to go after, some hope of getting Mary back.

She decided to walk rather than take a cab to try to clear her head. "For his sake as much as hers," she said into the air as she walked, "I hope we find her in one piece. I'm not sure John can handle the death of someone so close to him again." Molly gripped her purse with slightly shaking hands: the night had really taken its toll. She thought about what Sherlock's reaction might be when he receives her message. "Well, if anyone can help her the most at this point, it's Sherlock. I just hope he's not too busy nearly getting himself killed to do so."

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**Next chapter: some time with Sherlock~. Sherlock and John are both tough characters to write haha but I'll get there eventually! So I'm switching to bi-weekly updates in case you haven't noticed. I think that's enough time to allow me to stay on top of school as well as this story. **

**I'll always take reviews or concrit either on here or on my tumblr: princesscocoa. Thanks!**


	8. An update on the state of this story

To everyone who follows this story: I'm so sorry about how pathetic I've been with it. I've put it on a major hiatus while I've gotten into the CP fandom and written a little for them.

However, with season 3 looming (finally!) in the distance, I'm coming back to writing Sherlock. I just posted a little one shot and have decided that I'll likely be coming back to this as well.

Unfortunately, I've realized that my plotline is a bit too wonky and over-thought-out so I think I'm going to pick it apart and start over with it. I'll post an update on this story whenever I do, for those interested in reading how I've reworked it, but besides that, this is it for this version of All's Fair.

Anyway, thank you for reading, all of you that did; your views, subs, and comments really helped welcome me into the world of fanfiction.


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